Language and Inclusion: When Words Build Walls

Image Source: https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/diversity-indian-languages-calls-significant-farooque-shaikh/

[This Blog is a part of A Conversation on Inclusivity Series] 

“Me: Kitna hua didi?

Shopkeeper: Do sau pachpan.

rattled by the sudden reference to a Hindi number I wasn’t ready to comprehend

Me: (laughing, apologetically pointing to the calculator) Dikha dijiye, didi.

Shopkeeper: Accha, aapko nahi pata?

Me: Nahi didi, thoda kamzor hai mera Hindi.

Shopkeeper: Hindustan mein rehte hain aur Hindi nahi aati?”

In that moment, a kind woman who makes the best rajma-chawal in Dehradun — someone I’ve always known to be warm and cheerful — made me feel like a foreigner in my own country. I am certain she meant no harm. But I’m equally certain she believed what she said: that my “Indianness” or “Bharatiyata” could somehow be measured by my fluency in Hindi.

It didn’t matter that I am multilingual. That I speak five of the twenty-two constitutionally recognized languages (excluding English, of course). That I understand Hindi. That I even speak it, albeit with errors and a non-native accent. What mattered was that I didn’t speak it “well enough.” That I couldn’t respond with effortless ease in a tongue that's not my own.

This wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t even the first time in Dehradun. I've had my Hindi grammar mocked; my accent laughed at. I’ve been stared at, occasionally even dismissed aggressively, for a language slip-up that somehow became a sign of disrespect. Perhaps I shouldn’t complain. I didn’t speak up when my non-Kannadiga friends in Bengaluru were mocked or mistreated for not knowing Kannada. I offered sympathy, but no real solidarity (We all remember that old story, don't we, ‘First they came for the communists, and I didn’t speak for I wasn’t one.' What a way to be reminded of that).

So, what do we do with this discomfort, other than write blogs or laugh it off?

Let me take you to Bengaluru — my home, my heart, my chaos and my comfort. (Yes, yes — the weather, the food, the charm, the startups, the clichés — all of them, I know!) But it is also a city where language is fiercely loved and passionately guarded. And where that love can, at times, turn into something exclusionary.

We must first acknowledge a difficult truth: linguistic pride—even aggression— isn’t always chauvinism. Sometimes, it’s fear. Languages are not just tools of communication; they’re vessels of identity, of memory, of culture. When these vessels crack — when a language begins to die — we don’t just lose words, we lose worlds.

Our Constitution recognizes this. It protects not just Hindi, but the entire bouquet of languages listed in the Eighth Schedule. It celebrates linguistic diversity — at least on paper. But Sahitya Akademi awards and occasional nods to “classical status” aren’t enough. Protection must be lived and practised — not tokenized.

Second, we must confront the socio-economic tension that simmers beneath the surface. In prosperous cities, language becomes a scapegoat. A way to mark the outsider. It’s easier to blame the migrant than to challenge systems of inequity. We’ve seen this globally — xenophobia dressed up as nationalism. In India, it's no different. The engineer from Kerala, the startup founder from Bihar, the MBA graduate from Nagaland — all are, at times, unwelcome guests in cities they help build.

Try explaining to an economically struggling Kannadiga that the Tamilian techie isn’t the reason he’s poor, and you’ll find yourself trapped in a web of class, history, and resentment.

Third, and perhaps most importantly, we need to remember that the ‘language of disrespect needs no translation’. Both sides feel disrespected. Locals feel their culture is being diluted. Migrants feel unwelcome despite contributing economically. What we need is empathy, not ego. Understanding, not ultimatums.

Yes, Bengaluru was shaped by visionaries. Yes, it has deep roots in Kannada heritage. But it was also built — in part — by outsiders who came, stayed, and slowly became one with the city. And gave it a part of themselves in return. That’s not erasure — that’s evolution. How do I know this? I, too, am ‘them’!

Language, at its core, is meant to be a bridge between people. But if we’re not careful, it can become a wall — silent, invisible, but heavy with judgment.

We must resist that. We must speak, even in broken tongues. We must listen, even when the accent feels foreign. Only then can we build a country where language is not a test of belonging, but a celebration of difference.

Curious to know more? Start Here!

1. Losing a language means losing part of humanity and history 

2. National Language Debate: What Does It Mean for Indian Pluralism?

3. Why should we care about dying languages?

4. Does inequality foster xenophobia? Evidence from the German refugee crisis

Abhijit B. is an Assistant Professor (Senior Scale) at the School of Law, UPES, Dehradun.

{The opinions expressed herein are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect the views of the University.}